


Living Beyond

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [18]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1785: Scotland and Canada nervously await the arrival of a guest who England would be very displeased to discover Scotland has invited to visit Canada's home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> My Christmas celebrations were lovely, but very tiring. Now they're finally over, I decided the thing I apparently needed to make my festive cheer complete was the writing of a little Scotland/France angst. So, here we are...

* * *

 

**1785; Province of Quebec**

  
  
Every so often, Scotland will peer over the top of his book, hoping to catch the lad seated opposite him in some act of youthful mischief, or, at the very least, fidgeting: drumming his fingers, swinging his feet, or God, even picking his nose.  
  
But each and every time he looks, Canada is sitting straight-backed and stiff, his legs neatly crossed at the ankle and his hands resting in a demure fold in his lap. Scotland has yet to catch him so much as blinking.  
  
It's a little unnerving  
  
Scotland cannot imagine that Canada's stomach isn't fluttering with nervous expectation like his own is, that he isn't also marking each tick of the clock on the mantelpiece as it counts out the seconds, and minutes, and hours – Jesus, and it _is_ hours now; almost three – past the appointed time for this eagerly awaited meeting.  
  
If he were on his own, Scotland would be pacing a furrow around the room to work out the nervous tension in his muscles, and spending his frustration in growled complaints about nothing in particular for the ears of nobody at all, but the lad's patience shames him into both silence and stillness.  
  
He licks the tip of his index finger, and turns to another page he will not read.  
  
The clock ticks remorselessly on. The fire crackles in the hearth. The only sound from Canada is his breathing, slow in, steady out, the rhythm unchanging right up until there is a quiet, respectful knock at the door, whereupon it catches in his throat, just as Scotland's does.  
  
"Enter," Scotland says, getting to his feet so quickly that the sudden rush of blood from his head makes his vision blur around the edges, and he has to grab onto the back of his chair to keep himself from overbalancing.  
  
The servant spares him a brief glance tinged with something that might be concern before his gaze falls deferentially to the floor as he bows.  
  
"Your guest has arrived, Mr Kirkland, sir," he says. "Shall I show him in?"  
  
"No." The word snaps out more harshly than Scotland had intended, sounding like a reprimand he had never meant to give. He takes care to soften his tone when he repeats, "No. I'll... I'll come and see to him myself. You're dismissed, and we won't need your services again for the rest of the evening. You can take the time to yourself and do with it as you please."  
  
"Thank you, sir," the servant says, but there's a certain tightness about his voice and expression that suggests that he does not approve of this breach in proper etiquette.  
  
Still, no matter what his private thoughts on Scotland's display of poor manners may be, he obeys his orders readily enough, turning swiftly on his heel after offering another bow, albeit a slightly more perfunctory example of its kind.  
  
Whilst he listens to the servant's retreating footsteps, Scotland tries to bring some semblance of order to his attire, which is looking, even to his eye, somewhat dishevelled following his long afternoon of enforced inactivity.  
  
He refastens the buttons of his waistcoat, and those at his collar and cuffs. Tugs at breeches and coat to straighten out the creases that have been pressed deep into the fabric.  
  
When he bends to polish the buckles of his shoes, Canada calls his name somewhat desperately, as though he fears that Scotland has become so distracted by fussing with his clothes that he has forgotten their visitor entirely.  
  
"Aye," Scotland sighs out. "I know, lad. I'm going."  
  
Despite the certainty with which he delivers those words, his feet still drag seemingly of their own volition as he walks out into the hallway; his body's unconscious attempt, he's come to think, at sheltering him from pain for just a moment or two longer. Because it has been this way for centuries now; weeks and months of anticipation turning to dread the very instant before they meet, for disappointment is sure to follow.  
  
His first sight of France is, at least, never disappointing. Until they're forced by politeness or protocol to acknowledge one another's existence, and the experience is sullied by France's sneer, or mocking smirk, or, worse yet, his indifference, Scotland can simply look, and, furthermore, admire.  
  
And there is – as there always is – much to admire. Even more so than has become usual in recent years, perhaps, as France is bareheaded, his face unpainted, and the only times Scotland witnessed him thus in the past half-century or so were on the battlefield, when he'd been soaked in sweat, splattered in mud and gore, and trying to part Scotland's head from his neck, besides.  
  
His skin is clear, his cheeks lightly pinked, and his hair, clubbed with a length of simple black ribbon, has regained its natural sheen of gold once more, the one Scotland has missed seeing for decades now.  
  
The smile France gives him when he finally notices his approach is broad and unstudied; something he has not seen for far longer.    
  
" _Ecosse_ , I'm glad it is you!"  
  
A sentiment that Scotland can't begin to fathom. France hasn't bothered to even pretend to enjoy his company since their alliance ended, those times they had fallen into bed afterwards very much included.  
  
"I have been expecting _Angleterre_ to pounce on me at any moment, and then throw me out on my ear," France continues. "I trust you will not."  
  
He _knows_ Scotland will not, surely.  
  
"It would be pretty rude of me if I did, wouldn't it? Given that I was the one to invite you here in the first place," Scotland says. "You don't have to worry about England, in any case. He isn't here."  
  
France raises one eyebrow interrogatively. "I thought he was... very particular about being present whenever you or _Pays de Galles_ paid a visit to your colonies."  
  
"Normally, he is, but he's vowed never to step foot on this continent again after what happened with America. He'll change his mind again in a year or two, no doubt, once he's had chance to calm down a little more, but for the moment that promise still stands. Canada's been delegated to me for the time being, and I decided that, well, what England doesn't know won't hurt him. So... Here you are."  
  
"Here I am," France says, so quietly as to be almost inaudible. " _Ecosse_ , I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, shaking his head. He stares down at his shoes for a time, and then abruptly squares his shoulders, lifts his head, nose tilted high, and then orders Scotland in an imperious fashion to, "Take me to him."  
  
_A 'please' would be nice_ , a tiny, bitter voice mutters from some dark, long-neglected recess of Scotland's mind.  
  
"At once," he says aloud.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Scotland leaves Canada and France to their own devices as soon Canada starts wailing – which roughly coincides with France stepping foot through the parlour door – and then beats a hasty retreat to the little informal sitting room on the other side of the lad's small house; far enough away, he hopes, that he'll be able to escape the infernal racket entirely.  
  
If he ever came to hear word of it, England would, perhaps, forgive Scotland for allowing this visit in time. Should he learn that it had been unsupervised, his anger would be implacable.  
  
He seems to think that France would have no reason to meet with his former colony other than to encourage thoughts of treason and rebellion, just as he – England chooses to believe no matter what the truth may be – stoked them in America's mind.  
  
For all his sulking and weeping over America's loss, he cannot countenance that France might still mourn Canada's in his turn, and that his lingering grief may be personal rather than political. There had been no signs of deceit in France's quivering lips or welling eyes that Scotland could discern, though, nor in Canada's.  
  
So he had left them to the blubbering and clutching at each other he knew would inevitably ensue both gladly and with a clear conscience.  
  
He sinks down onto the nearest sofa with a decanter of whisky and the intention of using the same to drown out the thin tail end of Canada's cries that he can still hear even at this distance.  
  
The first brimming glass he throws back helps him to ignore the noise, the second, the nagging feeling that England wouldn't be entirely wrong, and he _is_ being somewhat lax in his duties as a caretaker.  
  
The third, fourth, and fifth do nothing to rid him of the knowledge that France is close to him again at last, practically a hairsbreadth away, but the sixth and seventh do at least dull his thoughts into a formless haze, and numb his body to such an extent that he slips easily into a light doze.  
  
He's roused some time later by the snick of a door closing; a light tread upon the floor. He wakes both fully and forcefully then, chilled by the fear that Canada has come to him looking for a comfort he has no idea how to provide.  
  
It comes as no relief to discover that it is instead France who has sought him out.  
  
France's complexion is pale, his eyes red and puffy, and Scotland has risen from his seat and taken two steps towards the other nation before he remembers that he doesn't know how to comfort France any more than he does Canada. He has never known, and even at their closest, France had never seemed to care for his fumbling attempts at it. He would certainly not welcome them now.  
  
So Scotland stops dead, lets his arms fall lax at his side, and waits.  
  
France moves slowly, unerringly closer, his gaze never wavering from Scotland's face, until they're standing pressed so closely that Scotland can feel France's heart beating against his chest. Or perhaps it's his own, pounding so hard that it reverberates through his entire body, setting his pulse to jumping and twitching along his skin.  
  
The last time they touched, France had slit Scotland's throat from ear to ear and left him to bleed out in the mud, but it doesn't occur to Scotland to flinch, not even when France's fingers brush against the base of his throat.  
  
They do not linger there, but drift upwards, up over the jut of his chin and then across the planes of his cheeks to his temples. There they rest, France's damp palms bracketing the sides of Scotland's face and holding his head still, even as France uses them to steady himself when he pushes himself up onto the balls of his feet so that their eyes draw almost level.  
  
His breath is scalding hot, and scented with something a little stronger than wine.  
  
" _Ecosse_ ," he says, his voice deepened by a low purr that Scotland is intimately familiar with, though he has not heard it directed his way for an age. " _Ecosse_ , do you want this?"  
  
There's no point in questioning what _this_ is. France never asks anything else of him at moments like this. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
After everything, his answer should be an unequivocal 'no', but he knows it won't be. He might protest, demur, and argue with himself internally, but he will tell France yes in the end. He always does, and, humiliatingly, France has not yet, in all their many encounters during the years they have otherwise spent apart, had to say a single other word to persuade him beyond that first, unvarying question.  
  
He gives a swift nod to both save time and hopefully spare himself some embarrassment.  
  
France kisses him bruisingly hard, his teeth sinking so deeply into Scotland's lower lip that they draw blood, and then takes hold of his hand and steers him back towards the sofa.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
France dresses immediately after they fuck, which is typical of him, and with careless haste, which is not.  
  
Scotland scarcely has time to appreciate the sight of his arse before he pulls his drawers up over it, or the smooth, rippling movement of the muscles of his back before he flings on his shirt.  
  
"What's the rush?" he asks. He never expects to be able to hold France afterwards, or to share any more kisses, but France will usually ape at least a degree reluctance at leaving his bed – or, indeed, sofa – and then engage him in a little light conversation as he dons his clothes again.  
  
"I shouldn't have come to you," France snaps, pulling with such heavy handed force on his cravat that he snarls it into a thick, ugly knot. He curses under his breath and then adds, "I should have left directly after talking to Canada, and not allowed myself to get distracted. It's the middle of the night now, or hadn't you noticed?"  
  
Scotland had not. "You're welcome to stay here till morning. There's already a room—"  
  
"I have other commitments, _Ecosse_ , other people to meet with, and visits to make. And, at the end of my journey, _Amérique_ will be waiting on me."  
  
"So, you'll be a day or two late." Scotland shrugs. "These things happen. I'm sure he'll understand."  
  
France shoots him a venomous glare, and then redirects his attention to untangling his cravat. "Being here again put me in a sentimental mood," he says eventually, his eyes still averted downwards. "Otherwise I would never... This changes nothing between us."  
  
Those words, or some variation upon the same theme, are typical of him, too; his normal parting gift.  
  
Once they stung Scotland keenly. Later, they ached. Now, they just make him feel weary, and hollowed out at his core.  
  
"Of course not," he says, anyway. Always. His own, gentler gift in return for France's barbed offering. "Glad we're both on the same page.


End file.
